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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28808475">Trouble Will Find Me (Sequel to TPODG)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/roomeight/pseuds/roomeight'>roomeight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Picture of Damien Gray (Series) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blur (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Gramon, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:27:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,544</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28808475</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/roomeight/pseuds/roomeight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of "The Picture of Damien Gray" AU. Takes place about one year after the events end in first story (spoilers).</p><p>Damon is apprehensive about meeting Graham's parents for the first time, and is learning how to deal with the after effects of last year's events.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Damon Albarn/Graham Coxon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Picture of Damien Gray (Series) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112063</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Trouble Will Find Me (Sequel to TPODG)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you for all of the love surrounding this AU. It makes me so happy to come back to these characters. I wasn't going to continue TPODG as I liked leaving it on am ambiguous ending, but I couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if Damon finally met Graham's parents. I really liked the idea of them being so in love that despite what others (society) thought about their age gap, or how difficult it would be with Damon's past, they did it anyway. </p><p>Fic title comes from the album by The National. Also not sure if this will be explicit yet but my fics usually are, lol.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>If I stay here, trouble will find me</em><br/>
<em>If I stay here, I'll never leave</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- The National, 'Sea of Love'</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Halfway to the grocery store, I have a panic attack so severe that Graham has to hold me with both arms and convince me to not get on the next tube home. In twenty minutes, we’re supposed to arrive at Graham’s parents’ house. I suggested we stop by the florist first as a peace offering. The conversation Graham had on the phone with his mother this morning was tense. I could hear Graham’s father bellowing over his mother, sounding like he was going to pummel me as soon as I was within eyesight. Graham’s mother assured me he was joking—her husband has a morbid sense of humor, she says—but it puts a knot in my stomach that keeps me nauseated for the rest of the day. I stare down at the homemade pie in my lap, thinking now that it should have been store-bought. That way, if it sucked, at least Graham’s parents wouldn’t associate it with me.</p><p>“It’s okay,” Graham says, squeezing my left hand. “Really. Everything’s going to be alright tonight. I promise.”</p><p>I must look like a ghost because he adds, “I promise my mum likes you. She said so. And my dad…” he sighs. “My dad will come along, eventually.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“I think you’re being very brave.”</p><p>“Brave or stupid, not sure which,” I mumble. </p><p>“Christ! Your hands are freezing cold.”</p><p>I frown at the display of colorful bouquets in front of us. “Does your mum have a preference?”</p><p>“She likes roses.”</p><p>“You mean, like from your dad?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Okay, no roses then.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Don’t want your dad to think I’m trying to steal two members of his family in the same night.”</p><p>Graham laughs. “I really think it’s going to be okay, Des,” he says, leaning in and planting a sweet kiss on my cheek. “They’ve seen how much you’ve gone through for me.”</p><p>Indeed. We’d been through a lot the past year. First, the break-in, then the hospital, the school investigation, and me recovering from a two-week coma. Graham was right: it hadn’t exactly been downhill for us the last twelve months. Besides being publicly outed, my job was on the line and yet was not because of the neglect of the school board surreptitiously giving out my personal address to a student—courtesy of a scorned, bigoted staff member—so it complicated things. It was just as complex as the twelve months that had come before, if not more now because Graham and I had to navigate our lives publicly together. But I couldn’t complain, not now. Not when I woke up next to him every day knowing both of us were in it for the long haul. That, no matter what happened, we’d weather it with our best foot put forward, fuck anyone who thought badly of us. And there were a few.</p><p>I remember waking up in the hospital bed, blinking my bleary eyes open as the nurse checked my too-red blood. I remember my throat locking up. Being unable to speak. Even the sun looked wrong. Then the cool blue of the morning sun shone through the window in dusty fingers of blue light filtering through the hospital curtains. A stranger’s hand squeezing mine. A boy’s smile, his tears. I didn’t recognize him at first. My thoughtlessness devoured me in a heavy haze. Then after a few days it lifted. My first cogent thought after waking up was: so that was death. Now that I knew, I marked each second and minute I was breathing next to him as a gift.</p><p> Graham looks at me, and another wave of anxiety crashes over me. “I’m not sure if this is a good idea after all.”</p><p>“It is a good idea. Trust me. They want to get to know you. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be having you over.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>Graham plucks a yellow lily bouquet out of the colorful batch. “Let’s get these. Mum likes yellow.”</p><p>“Great.”</p><p>“Should we pick up some wine too?”</p><p>“God, yes.”</p><p>“Dames.” Graham pulls me closer and looks me straight in the eyes. “Please don’t be anxious. It’s going to be alright. And if it’s not alright, then we’ll leave. Agreed?”</p><p>I nod. </p><p>“I love you.” He wraps his arms around my waist, squeezing me tightly. In front of us, an old woman wearing a white Sunday hat and blue dress is staring at me. Her mouth screws up into an ugly scowl. Her eyes dart from me to Graham, then back to me again. </p><p>“Uptight old hag,” I mumble. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>Graham leans in closer, arm sneaking down to scoop up my hand. I’m used to it by now; the stares, the dirty looks, the judgements of character and repulsion from complete strangers. It happens every time we go out, without fail, and I try my best to hide Graham from it. Given his enthusiasm for public affection, it’s difficult to tell him no. After all, to him, we’re as normal as anyone else. But we’re not. An older man with flecks of gray in his hair and a kid half his age, less than half his age, holding hands in the grocery is a lot like walking around with your pants on fire. Everyone notices. </p><p>There’s a tug on the back of my pant leg. When a look over my shoulder, I see a little girl—couldn’t be older than four—wearing a pink dress with long, strawberry blonde hair. She stares up at me with wide blue eyes, flashing a big gap-toothed smile.</p><p>“Hey! Are you boyfriend and girlfriend?” She asks, pointing a grubby finger to Graham holding my hand. I glance up, looking for her parent distracted by her cell phone conversation. </p><p>“Well, sort of.” I smile. “We’re boyfriends.”</p><p>“Boyfriends?” Her mouth hangs open. “I didn’t know two boys could be together.”  </p><p>“Yes, they can be,” I whisper, still smiling but praying for the line to move a little quicker. Graham peers over his shoulder. </p><p>“Who are you talking to?” He asks, but as soon as he does, the girl’s mother’s eyes meet mine. She gives Graham and I a once over, notices our hands together, then scowls. </p><p>“Come here, Anna,” she says, grabbing the little girl by her wrist and wrenching her back to her shopping cart. “Don’t talk to strangers,” she reprimands, with her eyes still locked on me. I smile through my teeth.</p><p>By the time we make it out of the grocery, my lungs feel like they’re caving in. Graham asks me to count back from one hundred on the tube ride.</p><p>I had been banking on winning his mum over. Apparently Graham’s mum had been a fan of Seymour when she was younger and, in his words, ‘had the hots for me.’ Which was a helpful, if awkward, piece of information to have my back pocket. I hesitated to ask what age his mother was in 1994, knowing that I probably wouldn’t like the answer. Though Graham’s mother having a soft spot for me was likely the only reason I was getting invited over in the first place, let alone why his dad hadn’t murdered me yet.</p><p>I thought back to just a few weeks after the intruder and the hospital, when Graham was sheltering at Jamie’s flat temporarily, too scared to go home. His parents had seen Graham interviewed on the nightly news, just as the story broke that a nineties has-been singer was being rushed to the hospital in a critical state from gunshot wounds.</p><p>After that, the news dredged up again liked a clogged drain, bubbling up to the surface and bringing with it all the dirt and shit and celebrity melodrama I’d foolishly believed I’d escaped after years of irrelevancy. Graham was the perfect victim, and without his acknowledgment, there were assumptions and accusations made. Jamie, bless him, had fought to keep the media from interviewing Graham, but it was no use. As soon as they got Graham’s last name, his parents found out. It seeded more assumptions. Testimonies about the night of the event slipped past a lawyer’s consultation to television stations and journalists. And it became apparent very quickly that none of my past was behind me.</p><p>So that was how Graham’s parents came to know me, was through the media. Not over a quiet dinner but invasive questions on their front lawn about why they would let their son live with a much older man who was also his teacher, breaking all social rules about these sorts of things. In retrospect, it says a lot about his parents’ grace that they didn’t respond with a restraining order on getting to know me.</p><p>Graham’s parents’ house was your typical brown brick with a picket fence in a middle-class Thatcher-era neighborhood. In expected English modesty, no house appeared to be out of place and every yard in order. The smell of freshly trimmed grass filled our nostrils as I swung open the gate to the stone path leading up to the house. Graham had explained that when he was a child, his father had been a clarinet player and bandleader in the British Army. He told me he’d been born in West Germany before his parents brought him back to Derby, and then eventually Colchester where he ended up attending Stanway Comprehensive, like me. </p><p>Graham humors me as I point out some landmarks from my childhood. His parents’ house isn’t that far from the school. In fact, it sits directly behind the football field, a short walk from the music portacabin I’d cherished. I smile, wondering would have been like if we’d both grown up in the same generation. Would this be easier? Or harder?</p><p>Graham’s mum, Pauline, opens the door and a gust of warm air from the inside of the house rushes out. She kisses Graham on the cheek and ushers both of us in.</p><p>“Gra! I swear you get taller every time I see you,” she says, suffocating him in a tight hug. </p><p>Graham turns red. “M’not getting any taller, mum.”</p><p>“I swear to God you have. But you’ve just grown up so fast,” she says, then turns to me, her dark hazel eyes flashing.  </p><p>“You must be Damon. I’m Pauline. It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she says, leaning in to give me a kiss on both cheeks. She pulls back, and her smile is so genuinely warm it almost throws me. She’s a lovely woman, short but well-statured, donning a blue apron over her yellow sundress. She’s wearing a pink lip with a drawn on cat eye that complements her dark hazel eyes. I can see where Graham gets his looks from. </p><p>“Pleasure’s all mine,” I reply, and when I kiss her in return, her cheeks blush pinker than Graham’s.</p><p>“Gra’s told me so much about you. And look at you! You look like you’re doing well.”</p><p>I shrug and force a smile. “I suppose.”</p><p>“I’m just surprised you’re so mobile. After the accident and all. Gra told me you had to go through some physical therapy for a while, didn’t you? Not to mention your memory loss, too…you poor lad.” Her eyes settle on the patchy, not-quite-back-to-normal hair on the right side of my head, where the red scars from surgery still haven’t faded to white yet. I nod and smile tightly.</p><p>“You remember nothing from that night?”</p><p>Graham elbows her gently, then shakes his head. “Mum, we talked about this.”</p><p>“Oh right, right. It’s a touchy subject. Anyway, let’s not focus on that. It’s just lovely to see you, now isn’t it Damon? I should introduce you to Bob. Bob, where are you? Come here! Gra and his friend are here.”</p><p>Friend. My heart knocks against my ribcage so fast it feels like it’s going to explode. I half-convince myself to turn around and run. </p><p>Graham leans in and whispers. “She never bothers to put on makeup. So that definitely means that she likes you.” He giggles and I push him away, telling him to shush.</p><p> The smell of stewing soup and freshly baked bread fills our nostrils as Pauline ushers us into the busy kitchen. The TV’s on in the living room, puttering out news from the BBC. In the middle of the living room sits a brown piano—a Mason &amp; Hamlin by the looks of it—next to the window and facing a garden of trumpet lilies that shame shade of yellow as Pauline’s dress. </p><p>“Graham tells me you’re a very musical family,” I say, nodding toward the piano.</p><p>“Oh yes, very much so. Graham’s father played clarinet in the British Army for a very long time.”</p><p>“So Graham told me, yeah.”</p><p>“Bob’s always instilled musical creativity in our kids. And it definitely shows. Graham used to play the saxophone and clarinet. He takes after his father a lot, musically.”</p><p>“I didn’t use to, I still play the sax and clarinet, mum.”</p><p>“Right, well, he’s probably never told you, but Graham was first chair in his band class.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m not surprised,” I say, noticing Graham’s cheeks turning pink. “He’s much more talented than he gives himself credit for.”</p><p>“Damon still makes music too, mum,” Graham explains, noticing that I’ve sunk into the corner of the room.</p><p>“Oh, you do?”</p><p>“Yeah, um.” I clear my throat. “Well, I teach music theory mostly. But sometimes I mentor. Mostly piano lessons. Some violin.”</p><p>Graham elbows me in the ribs. “I also make some music on the side. You know, small things.”</p><p>Pauline dices more carrots and then folds them into a boiling pot. With her back to us, Graham reaches down to squeeze my hand.</p><p>“That’s fascinating—Gra, didn’t you tell me you were taking music theory lessons at school?”</p><p>Graham’s face flushes a deeper shade of pink and I want to disappear into the wall. “Yeah, mum. I told you Dames is a teacher, don’t you remember?”</p><p>“Oh. That’s right.” </p><p>Pauline spins around, wiping her hands on the front of her apron. “Damon, you must play piano for us tonight. Graham told me you would. He tells me you’re very talented and we haven’t had a player in the house for so long.”</p><p>“Oh, did he?” I say, elbowing Graham back.</p><p>“He did. And frankly, I insist that you do,” she says, with her eyes glimmering.</p><p>“Mum’s a big fan of yours,” Graham taunts. Pauline clucks her tongue.</p><p>“I’m not really.”</p><p>“Not really? Mum, you’ve got all of Seymour’s albums!” He says, and Pauline’s face turns beet red.</p><p>“Hush! I only have a few.”</p><p>“No, you have all of them, mum. I checked.”</p><p>“Even the bad ones?” I tease, and Graham nods.</p><p>“Well,” Pauline says, turning away to hide her face. “Even if I had them, that was quite a long time ago, wasn’t it? Speaking of, I’m surprised to hear that you’re a schoolteacher now, Damon. How’d that come about?”</p><p>“Oh yeah, well, you know.” I shrug. “My mum and dad are both teachers, so I suppose it runs in the family.”</p><p>“And are you passionate about teaching?”</p><p>“Yeah…I mean, it’s different than playing music, but I enjoy helping students see their full potential.” Graham snorts, and I frown and jab him in the ribs again.</p><p>“Well, that’s lovely.”</p><p>“Mum, where’s the old man?”</p><p>“Your father? He’s in the backyard. Why don’t you go grab him and tell him that dinner’s almost ready?” Pauline asks, but before she finishes her sentence the back door swings open, and his father steps in.</p><p>“Bob! Introduce yourself to our guest.”</p><p>He’s tall. Taller than I imagined he would be. Again, not surprising considering Graham is taller than me. He’s broadly built—also like Graham—with thick hands and a beard and a head of hair with flecks of gray in it. He looks, admittedly, not that much older than me. Maybe five or six years older, give or take. </p><p>Bob extends his hand and shakes mine with a firm grip. His larger hands dominate mine, and it makes my stomach somersault when I notice the three inches he has over me.</p><p>“Bob,” he says, in a low voice.</p><p>“Damon. It’s nice to finally meet you.”</p><p>His set frown stretches into an adequate, if polite, smile. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”</p><p>I let out a nervous laugh. Thankfully, Pauline tells us to set the table so I don’t have to respond. I steel my nerves, reminding myself to be confidant and charming. I can do this. If I can perform in front of twenty thousand people, I can handle an awkward family dinner.</p><p>I survive the next hour of conversation at the dinner table. No lie, it’s not painless. The steady stream of red wine helps. I’m treading water to make a good impression, but Graham’s father is a man of few words—a couple of sentences to be specific—whereas Pauline is quite the opposite. She’s happy to fill the awkward silences between me and Graham’s father with plenty of benign discussions about Graham’s embarrassing childhood moments. Like the time he ate a whole birthday cake by himself, or how he broke not one, but three bones falling out a tree at age eleven and spent the better half of his last year at school hobbling around with an ankle cast and crutches.</p><p>I weather questionable stares from Graham’s father the entire dinner. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Bob wasn’t fond of me. But despite the few words we exchanged, a tiny part of me hoped that I could change the tide.</p><p>Inevitably, the table conversation turns back to Graham and I, and Bob sets his mark on me.</p><p>“Tell me, Damon. How did you and my son meet each other?”</p><p>Graham and I stare at each other, waiting for the other to answer. Finally, I clear my throat.</p><p>“Um, we met at the university.”</p><p>I stare into the abyss of Bob’s pinched face, his scowl making my skin crawl. This is an act of terrorism on his part. He knows I’m a teacher. Just as Pauline knew, but conveniently forgot upon meeting me. And this wasn’t a question as much as it was me admitting guilt.</p><p>“And you are Graham’s teacher?”</p><p>“No—well, I’m not anymore,” I explain, my voice cracking. My fork slips from my fingers, and Graham jumps from the clatter it makes in the quiet room.</p><p>“So, you’re no longer a teacher?”</p><p> “Um, no, well I mean I am,” I answer, my tongue stumbling over the words. “I’m still teaching at the university.”</p><p>“I’m surprised.”</p><p>“Sorry?”</p><p>“I’m surprised that you still have a job.”</p><p>“Bob,” Pauline cautions.</p><p>Another awkward silence, then the scraping of the leg of Pauline’s chair on the linoleum floor. “Well, I think it’s time for dessert.” She gathers up the empty plates and disappears, leaving all three of us with the air thicker than ever.</p><p>I’m feeling the wine now; I bite down hard on my tongue.</p><p>“What’s surprising about it?” Graham kicks me underneath the table. </p><p>“I thought a teacher dating his own student would be a fireable offense.”</p><p>“Dad,” Graham warns. “We talked about this.”</p><p>“I was Graham’s teacher last year. I’m not anymore.”</p><p>“Thank god for that. You shouldn’t be in any sort of position of power around my son.”</p><p>“Dad, stop. I told you not to do this.” </p><p>“I just want to know how a teacher twice my son’s age was allowed to have a relationship with him. Not to mention how he almost got my son killed—”</p><p>“He didn’t put me in danger,” Graham interrupts. “I told you, it was a bigoted maniac who came after him—”</p><p>I place a hand on Graham’s knee to silence him. “It’s alright. You don’t need to defend me,” I say, dropping my napkin on my plate and standing. “Excuse me.”</p><p>Without looking back, I escape the dining room. I over hear Graham shouting at his father as I grab my jacket and step out into the icy air. As the front door slams behind me, I pretend to not hear Graham yelling after me as I cross the street. My fingers tremble as I pull out a fag, and I curse when it slips from my fingers and lands on the asphalt at my feet.</p><p>“Des! What the hell are you doing?”</p><p>“I’m calling a cab.”</p><p>“No, you’re not,” Graham fumes, tearing my phone out of my hand. “You can’t just leave like that.”</p><p>“You said that it was fine to leave.”</p><p>“Why do you do this? Why do you always run away when things get difficult?”</p><p>“I’m not running away.”</p><p>“Yes, you are! You’re running away right now. From me.” He blocks my path, his eyes filled with tears. The sight of him makes my heart wrench.</p><p>“Gra. Please don’t cry.”</p><p>“You said you wouldn’t give up on us. You promised me. Remember?”</p><p>“…I remember.”</p><p>“So you can’t leave.” He chokes. “You made a promise.” </p><p>“Please stop crying.”</p><p>“Don’t leave.”</p><p>I suck in a shaky breath and reach into my pocket for another fag and my lighter. My freezing hands tremble as I spark the lighter again and again. All I can see in my head are news anchors, headlines. All I can hear is the same ambulance call being repeated over and over on every channel. Graham’s voice talking to a dispatcher. And that familiar sharp pain in the side of my skull, throbbing.</p><p>“Damon. Damon, stop.” My throat closes up. I can’t breathe. I can’t—</p><p>“I can’t do this,” I cry, my knees buckling underneath me. I curl into a fetal position, covering my head with my hands.</p><p>“You can’t just collapse in the middle of the street! Come on,” he says, pulling me to my feet and dragging me to the sidewalk.</p><p>“Hey, it’s okay. Look at me. I’m here.”</p><p>Graham draws me into his arms. I gasp for air between panicked sobs. Pathetic. I’m supposed to be the adult here.</p><p>“It’s going to be alright.”</p><p>I suck in a shaky breath and wipe my eyes. He squeezes my hand. “We’re going to get through this. You and me. But you can’t run away, understand?”</p><p>“I’m not trying to run away, I just—“</p><p>“Just what?”</p><p>I take a deep breath. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“If you don’t know, then you’re trying to run away,” Graham says, muffled against my chest. “Look, I spoke to my dad. He’s an idiot, alright? Mum talked to him before we came over. She said she knew he was going to do this.”</p><p>I shake my head. “I don’t know if this is going to work.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“With me, with my history, with everything, Gra. It seems like it’s all…uphill, every bloody day.”</p><p>“It is uphill. Nothing worthwhile ever comes easy.” Graham looks me dead in the eyes. “You know who told me that? You.”</p><p>I shake my head.</p><p>“I’m serious. Look at what we’ve been through. You’re going to give all that up, for this?”</p><p>“…No.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>I smile weakly. “Since when did you become the adult?”</p><p>“Since you got hurt on my watch,” he says, kissing me on the cheek. “Look, I’ll talk to my dad. I’m sure my mum’s already torn into him, but he shouldn’t be talking to you like that.”</p><p>“Gra,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Let me talk to him. It’s my battle to fight. Alright?”</p><p>“Alright.” He sighs, then nods. “Are you ready to go back inside?”</p><p>To my relief, the rest of the evening goes by mostly uneventfully. Pauline insists that I play the piano for them, so I do. While both Pauline and Bob listen quietly, Graham beams from ear to ear. It’s his naïve hope and positivity that keeps me from giving up on this. I know how much he wants my parents to accept me, and vice versa. I just need to get through the next twelve hours.</p><p>Ten o’clock rolls around, and Pauline suggests that Graham offer me his bed while he sleeps on the couch. At first I insist on sleeping on the sofa, but his mother is persistent. </p><p>“You’re our guest,” she says. “Graham can do well enough on the couch.” As soon as his parents are out of earshot, Graham whispers in my ear.</p><p>“They’re very prudish,” he explains, gathering the spare sheets and pillows from his bedroom. I chuckle under my breath. “Nothing before marriage and all that.”</p><p>“It’s fine, I assumed as much.”</p><p>I help Graham get settled in, offering once again to take the couch for the night, but he refuses, flashing me a mischievous wink.</p><p>“Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan,” he says, and I hope he doesn’t. I kiss the top of his head. It’s our first bit of physical affection since being here, and Graham’s body goes from tense to jelly the second I touch him.</p><p>“I really wish we could sleep together tonight,” he mumbles, peering up at me with sad eyes. </p><p>“I know, me too. But we need to be good. Correction, I need to be good.”</p><p>“You’re doing perfectly.”</p><p>I laugh. “Doesn’t feel like it.”</p><p>“My mum loves you. My dad is...a harder egg to crack.”</p><p>“So I noticed.” I manage a weak smile. He squeezes his arms around me.</p><p>“Really, I mean it. You’re amazing. My dad hasn’t seen that yet, but he will. I know it.” His lips brush the nape of my neck as we embrace, and I hold myself back from kissing him. Eight hours of sleeping in separate beds is going to be harder than I thought.</p><p>Graham leads me up the stairs to his bedroom. “My parents sleep at the end of the hallway. They can’t hear anything from my bedroom. Trust me. Unless it’s really loud.” My mouth twitches when I realize what he’s inferring. </p><p>“Not tonight, Gra,” I warn, but he acts as if he doesn’t hear me, still looking at me with hungry eyes. He leans in to kiss me, on the lips this time, and we hold the kiss a second too long. Graham rolls his hips forward, pressing himself into the crease of my thigh. It’s too much. Gently, I push him away. God help me, I want nothing more than to fuck him when he’s like this—whiny and needy—brushing his hands over the front of his trousers. Just knowing that he’s already hard, when I’ve barely touched him at all tonight, drives me mad.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Not as sorry as I am,” he whines. “I don’t even want sex as much as I just want to cuddle.“</p><p>“Me too.” I squeeze his hand, nodding at The Beatles and Jam posters on his walls. “So this is your bedroom?”</p><p>“Yeah, what about it? Are you going to make fun?”</p><p>“No, it’s just...cute.”</p><p>“Cute?”</p><p>“Cute’s not the right word.”</p><p>“It sure isn’t,” Graham huffs. “Maybe you meant ‘cool.’”</p><p>I laugh. “Yes, that’s what I meant. Your room is cool. Very different from your room back home.”</p><p>Graham’s eyes light up. Just that word. Home. Our home. Our life, together. It’s been real for us the past twelve months, and I’m not sick of it yet.</p><p>“You’ve excellent taste in music posters.”</p><p>“I know I do. I bet my room is a lot cooler than your room when you were a kid.”</p><p>“You’d be right.” Graham’s beaming. My smile fades. “We should get some sleep. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow. Are you sure you want to sleep on the couch?”</p><p>“Yes, cause mum’ll make a big deal out of it if I don’t.”</p><p>“It’s a bit weird sleeping in your childhood bed.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I mean, how many wanks have you had in here?” I tease, and Graham turns as red as a beet.</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“And how many of them were you thinking about me?”</p><p>He elbows me in the side. “Shut up. I hate you.”</p><p>“I love you.”</p><p>“I love you too… jerk.”</p><p>“I’m your favorite jerk, though.”</p><p>Graham fights back a grin. “A lot.”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“You asked how many...”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Wanks. How many wanks I’ve had to you in here.” </p><p>“A lot. A bloody lot.”</p><p>I chuckle. “I figured as much.” I kiss him on the lips and we reluctantly bid each other a good night. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The red digits on the clock next to Graham’s bed read five past two. I haven’t slept a wink, and my body aches—phantom pains—as I stare up at the ceiling. The sound of rain outside does little to sooth my anxiety as I ruminate on the night’s events. Graham’s father’s speech replays in my head. His expression, which told me he thought I was a loser the second I walked in the door. Or a pedophile. Or a murderer. Or both. I roll over onto my side, exhaustion stealing sleep from me. Then I hear the bedroom door crack open.</p><p>“Gra? You shouldn’t be up here.“</p><p>“Shhh!” He clasps an icy hand over my mouth before slipping under the sheets with me. “You don’t want my parents to hear us, do you?”</p><p>“Graham—“</p><p>He shuts me up with a kiss. “I couldn’t sleep.”</p><p>“We can’t be together,” I hiss. “What if your parents see? I’ll be in even more trouble than I am.”</p><p>“They won’t.”</p><p>“How do you know?”</p><p>“Because, I told you, I know how much sound travels from my bedroom. If we’re quiet, they’ll never hear us.”</p><p>“I won’t ask how you found that out.”</p><p>“Would you stop it with the wank jokes?”</p><p>“I can’t help it. Really though, you can’t be up here.” </p><p>“Please. I couldn’t sleep. It’s weird not sleeping next to you,” he whines, nuzzling his head into me. “Besides, the thunderstorm was freaking me out. I didn’t want to be alone.”</p><p>“Mmhmm.”</p><p>“You missed sleeping next to me too, right?”</p><p>“Does the sun rise every morning?”</p><p>“You’re so cheese.”</p><p>A bright flash illuminates the room, followed by a loud rumble of thunder. Graham’s fingernails dig deep into my arm. He tugs me closer and I wrap my arms around him so we’re spooning as we wait for the next crack of thunder to hit. I chuckle.</p><p>“You’re adorable when you’re frightened.”</p><p>“Shut up.”</p><p>“It’s cute.”</p><p>We hold each other like that for a while, in the quiet darkness, with Graham’s warm body folded into my arms. This is how we’re used to sleeping, so it’s not long before my eyes are at half-mast. I tell myself to remind him he needs to wake up in an hour to go back to the sofa, but I’m so tired I forget and I fall into a heavy sleep.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>I’m jerked awake by the sound of thunder. Graham’s disappeared from the bed, likely having slipped back downstairs to the couch. I sense an urgency to pee and climb out of bed, stumbling with bare feet to the loo at the end of the hall, next to Graham’s parent’s bedroom. </p><p>I swear under my breath as I almost trip over the cat on the way there, and flip the light switch on, leaving the bathroom door open a crack to let Bastard the cat slink through. He chirps as I allow him in, before curling around my legs. I relieve myself, stumbling sleepily over Bastard, and turn to the sink where the mirror reflects my tired face. When I turn off the faucet, my eyes flick up to the mirror again and I swear I see something—a shape—hovering behind the crack in the door. The hairs on the back of my neck bristle as I stare into the abyss, my eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness. I tell myself I’m imagining things, and that I’m just tired, but carefully peer outside the door before switching off the bathroom light. There’s nothing in the hallway, as far as my eye can see. Shutting the door behind me, I shuffle blindly down the hallway back to Graham’s bedroom. </p><p>As I tiptoe back in, I notice a dark mass on top of the bed that I assume is Graham having returned to bed.</p><p>“Gra,” I whisper, tapping his shoulder. “You need to go back down to the couch.” No response. The kid sleeps like a rock. I climb over him into bed, telling myself that I’ll wake up early enough to usher him back down to the couch. But when I reach over him, he grabs me by the wrist. He stares up at me, wide-eyed.</p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p>He shakes his head. Graham looks more frightened than I’ve ever seen him.</p><p>“Don’t talk,” he hisses. “He’ll hear us.”</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>A shiver shoots down my spine. The look in his eyes tells me that something is very wrong. I glance up at the open bedroom door. The shadows from the branches outside dance across the walls. Then the lightning flashes again, illuminating the entire bedroom, and I finally see it. Someone in the door frame, staring at both of us. A small animal noise escapes Graham’s throat. He tugs me closer.</p><p>“Do you see him?”</p><p>I nod, my heart racing. My eyes dart around the bedroom, desperate to find something I can use to defend us.</p><p>“Who are you and what do you want?”</p><p>“Shh!” Graham hisses, grabbing my hand so tight I think he’s going to break it.</p><p>My entire body sits frozen as the thunder rolls again, then lightning flashes and I see the stranger’s face staring back at me. Graham's breath gets shallower. It takes all of my courage to climb over Graham and put myself between him and the door. I grab a lamp from the side table.</p><p>“Dames, don’t,“ Graham pleads, almost crushing my hand. I rip myself from his grip, moving closer to the doorway. I lift the lamp behind my head, waiting. The room floods with light again and I see him clearly. The stranger raises his hand, pointing the barrel of his gun at my head. Before I can react, he squeezes the trigger. The gun fires in a flash and then—</p><p>I’m screaming. The side of my skull explodes in a throbbing pain. Thunder crashes against the bedroom walls. I’m no longer standing, but sitting up in bed. The lamp, the gun, is nowhere to be found. Someone—Graham—has his trembling arms around squeezed around me. My pajamas soaked through with sweat. He lifts his hand from my mouth, his face twisted up into worry. </p><p>“You had that nightmare again, didn’t you?”</p><p>I squeeze my eyes shut.</p><p>“Which one was it?”</p><p>“Same one it always is.”</p><p>“Man with the gun?”</p><p>“Yes, but here.”</p><p>“Here?”</p><p>“In your bedroom.”</p><p>“Shit.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” I lie, not wanting him to worry.</p><p>“No, it’s not. My dad stressed you out, and that’s why you’re having nightmares again.”</p><p>“I’m alright. Really.”</p><p>Graham’s large brown eyes study me. “You’re real shit at lying, you know that? Also, you need a therapist.”</p><p>“I need an army of therapists,” I joke, but then my grin fades. “You shouldn’t be sleeping up here.”</p><p>“Well, you shouldn’t be having PTSD episodes alone.”</p><p>I frown. “I thought they would have ended by now.”</p><p>“It’s going to take time.” He squeezes my hand. “Christ. I can feel your pulse racing right now.”</p><p>“I’m fine.”</p><p>“Stop saying that. Look at me. What’s going to calm you down?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” I suck in a breath into my tight lungs, trying to think of anything but the panic crawling all over my body. “Maybe a pleasant memory.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“Us.”</p><p>“Like our first kiss?”</p><p>I nod. “Sure. The one at the club?”</p><p>Graham gives me a funny look. “The club?”</p><p>“Yeah, our first kiss was at the club. Wasn’t it?”</p><p>The light in his eyes fades. “Please tell me you didn’t forget our first kiss.”</p><p>“I remember. It was at the club. You were a bit drunk though, so maybe you don’t remember.”</p><p>“Oh, Des,” Graham says, sounding like he’s going to cry. “You forgot our first kiss.”</p><p>“I did?”</p><p>“It was at your flat. The first night you brought me home. You really don’t remember?”</p><p>“No…I…” I frown, trying to sort through the fuzz in my head. “I remember bringing you home that night, but…” I strain to remember more, but there’s nothing. Just white space. My heart breaks at Graham’s expression. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Graham squeezes my hand. “It’s alright,“ he says, but I can tell it isn’t.</p><p>“Gra—”</p><p>“It’s okay.”</p><p>Anger boils up inside my chest. “I hate this so much. You know how I much I hate it.”</p><p>He frowns. “It’s not your fault that you can’t remember.”</p><p>“I just hate how sad it makes you, when I don’t remember things. Important stuff.”</p><p>Graham squeezes my hand. “We can always make new memories.”</p><p>“Exactly…you can refresh my memory.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“You still remember our first kiss. So you can show me what it was like, right?”</p><p>“Like a re-enactment? Won’t be the same, I guess.”</p><p>“It’d be new to me.”</p><p>Graham laughs despite the sad look on his face. “So…you want me to kiss you and act like it’s our first time again?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Next thing I know you’re going to tell me you forgot about the first night we had sex.”</p><p>“In London?” I narrow my eyes, pretending for a second that I don’t know what he’s talking about. His eyes widen in horror. “I’m joking.”</p><p>He punches me in the arm. “That’s not a funny joke, you jerk!”</p><p>“Ouch. So are you going to kiss me or leave me hanging here?”</p><p>“It takes a minute to get in the proper headspace, y’know.” He shakes his head. “Besides, I have to do this to you first.” I shirk away as he digs his hands into my sides, tickling me relentlessly.</p><p>“Stop!” I beg between gasped fits of suppressed laughter. “Not fair!”</p><p>He cuts off, and no sooner than I’ve caught my breath, he kisses me on the lips. It’s a quick peck, hardly a kiss at all.</p><p>“Wait, was that supposed to be—”</p><p>He kisses me again, another peck to shut me up, but this time his eyes are glowing like he’s daring me to kiss back. His third peck, I surprise him. My hands circle around the back of his neck and he lets out an unexpected whimper as my tongue slips between his lips. It’s a deep, intense kiss, the kind that takes him off guard a bit, that sort of knocks the air out of him, and it makes his entire body shudder. When I pull back, his eyes are glassy.</p><p>“Des, I—” I kiss him again, pulling him close against my chest and then tasting salt as I place my lips at the corners of his eyes. I smile. He smiles back.</p><p>“What’s wrong? Did I mess it up?”</p><p>He shakes his head. “Is that how you imagined it went, our first kiss? Like that?”</p><p>“I couldn’t imagine kissing you any other way, our first time.”</p><p>He laughs, his eyes still welled up with tears.</p><p>“What? Why are you laughing at me?”</p><p>But Graham says nothing, he just keeps smiling.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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